


A Death in the Family

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [49]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Archimedes was a great fish, Death of a pet, Gen, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Archimedes was a very educational fish for his 15 years in Baker Street. At the end of Archimedes' life, he still has one more thing to teach Sherlock Holmes, about his own past and about the importance of the body as transport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Death in the Family

**Author's Note:**

> The story title is from Juan Alban's [A Death in the Family](http://youtu.be/uswn-ajvVqk).

Sherlock pulled off his scarf and coat, hitching them over the hook as Ford ran into the living room ahead of him. He smiled as the boy threw an overnight bag in the general direction of the sofa then tacked left, still at speed, to skid to a halt in front of the fireplace, the skull, and Archimedes' beaker.

"Hello, Archimedes!"

Tugging his suit jacket down briefly, then reaching up to undo the buttons one-handed, Sherlock turned towards the kitchen. Tea first. Though Ford would perhaps prefer hot chocolate. The boy was excited to be spending the weekend at Baker Street, too wound up now, tea wouldn't settle him, but, contradictory though it seemed, hot chocolate might. The sweetness and underlying bitterness of the cocoa would lure him to a seat, at least, and one of Mrs Hudson's recent batch of cakes – Sherlock knew he'd left two in the tin, so unless John had taken them In to the clinic... unlikely. John knew how much Sherlock liked them, and that Ford was coming today. Oh, but there on the counter, Mrs Hudson's Jubilee tin, that would be a fresh batch because she also knew Ford was coming. So. Chocolate. They could discuss Ford's scholastic performance, although an examination of the science magazine Sherlock had seen at the top of the overnight bag might engage his boy a little more. Physics was not exactly Sherlock's field, although naturally he had an excellent (well, brilliant) grasp of Earth-bound applications. Ford did so love to talk about Mars, though, and the colony being set up there. The comparisons between gravities, the behaviour of different chemical compounds under the differing circumstances, the effect of lower gravity on the human body, all manner of scientific endeavours that applied (or might) to extraplanetary settlement.. Sherlock would simply ask a few questions and let Ford rattle on breathlessly about the topic, between gulps of chocolate and too-large bites of cake. Sherlock's smile widened in anticipation, as he filled and switched on the kettle...

...and noticed at last the uncharacteristic silence, when he expected to hear Ford, thoughts spilling out of him in a torrent, the way they usually did.

Abruptly, Sherlock turned to take in the motionlessness of his silent son. Ford, perfectly still and perfectly quiet as he stood and stared into Archimedes' beaker. At Archimedes, the grand old fish, his gold washed out more recently to silvery hues, floating sideways on the surface of the water. Perfectly dead.

"Ford."

Ford took a breath and released it with a little whoosh, huffing out tension as he'd been taught to do. "Archimedes died."

The fish had seemed hale enough when Sherlock had left the flat not two hours ago to collect Ford. Sherlock felt a pang at that. Had he missed the warning signs? Sherlock didn't recall any, but he had been preoccupied. He swallowed against what felt like an irritation in his throat.

Well, it was a pity. John had won Archimedes for him at a fair, with his shooting skills, and therefore had a certain place in Sherlock's quite short list of items of sentimental value. But he was just a fish, and fish died all the time, nothing really remarkable there, even though it wasn't expected. Just a fish. A useful fish, obviously. Over the last, what was it, fifteen years? Archimedes had helped them teach the children about volume and displacement, the refraction of light through water, the function of gills, how to test for PH levels, all manner of things. A useful fish indeed.

A fish that had died under mysterious circumstances.

Sherlock bent to the cupboard where he kept scientific equipment; drew out a board and a small, sharp knife. He took them over to stand at Ford's side, regarding the late Archimedes.

Ford took another deep breath, huffed it out again.

Sherlock placed the board and knife on the nearby table, took up the little net by the beaker, and carefully dipped in and removed the body. Placed it carefully on the board. Ford turned slowly to watch.

"This," said Sherlock carefully, "Was unexpected. But it is at least an opportunity for learning. You've done dissection at the lab in school."

"At home, too," said Ford slowly, eyes on the fish, "We found a dead squirrel in the park. Dad thought it might be interesting. It was."

"Good. Fine. Well. Archimedes is smaller, obviously, so you'll need to be more delicate."

Another inhale; huffed exhale.

Sherlock swallowed again, against that irritation in his throat.

"Do we...?" began Ford, then stopped. He tried again. "Do we have to?"

"What? No. It would be a shame to pass up the opportunity, of course. We might find out why he died." Sherlock drew his eyes away from Archi... the fish, to regard Ford with puzzlement. Ford was usually very excited to participate in scientific enquiry.

"Hmm." Another strangely tense breath, and then: "Sherlock. I-If I died, would you dissect me to find out why?"

It was like vertigo, how the world fell away from Sherlock then. Like falling from a hospital rooftop, sickening and dizzying and Sherlock didn't know why his heart rate had suddenly ramped up, why the bile was rising in his throat.

A double-thump in his chest, like panic.

If Sherrinford died and he didn't know why, of course he'd authorise an autopsy, if Mycroft wasn't there to do so; of course he would, if there was doubt.

A second double-thump, echoing in his chest and stomach as though he was hollow and becoming emptier by the second.

The mental picture of Ford, dead and still, carefully placed on a table, lips tinted blue, little limbs rigid. It made Sherlock's skin crawl. He thought he might vomit.

A third double-thump, his heart trying to smash out of his ribs and into the narrow chest cavity inside that picture in his head, to give that beating heart over to his boy. The very idea of anyone cutting into that beloved flesh, that cherished skin, as though he was just a-a-a _thing_... it was abomination to do that, to cut him, except to give him Sherlock's own heart, his own lungs, his own blood, to bring him back... to... to...

A sharp inhale, Sherlock's this time. A huff of breath out.

"Ford. I'm sorry. I'm..." He reached out, large hands fumbling over Ford's shoulders, pulling him near. "I'm sorry."

Ford, frozen for a moment, relaxed suddenly, tumbled forward into Sherlock's hold, pressed his face into Sherlock's chest, wound his arms around him and held tight.

Sherlock took another strangled breath and nuzzled his face into the top of Ford's head, gulping in the texture, the warmth, the scent of him.

The body is only a vessel. Transport for the mind. Oh, but this transport was precious, priceless, treasured, matchless. Some vessels are of themselves beloved, for what they are as well as the unique and cherished person they contain.

Sherlock kissed Ford's head and said "I'm sorry" again. He said "That was stupid of me. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"He's just a fish," Ford mumbled against Sherlock's chest, through the cotton of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock had the most peculiar sensation. A sense memory, soft fur under his fingers. Black fur. Long ears. _Now why...?_ **_Oh_**. First Mate Rabbit. Sherlock, four years old, and the pet Mummy had got to keep him company when Mycroft went back to school. He remembered suddenly how Rabbit was chased out of the library by Daddy, and the scrambling slide of his paws on the just-polished floorboards, and Rabbit's fall down the stairs. Four-year-old Sherlock had almost slipped over the edge right after him, trying to catch his crewmate, but Daddy had caught Sherlock by the arm (there were bruises, later, and a lecture on letting the dirty animal into the library). When they got to First Mate Rabbit, it was clear he'd broken his leg; and his father had promptly broken his neck. _Save him suffering_. Then given him to the cook. _Waste not, want not._

 _That is why I can't don't eat rabbit._ The very thought of it had always nauseated him. _I deleted that._

Then Sherlock thought: _at times I am painfully dull_ - _witted_.

"No," said Sherlock, "He wasn't just a fish. He was a gift from John. He was here whenever John was away. He wasn't as good as John, but he was better than the skull for talking to. He could recognise individuals, too, which many people don’t realise goldfish can do. He was frequently smarter than many of our clients and half of the MET. I believe he also liked Brahms. He’d come to the top of the beaker when I played Brahms. Vivaldi, too.”

"I used to sing him the Improbable Song,” confessed Ford, “But I don’t think he liked it. He could see when I had the fish food, though. He'd come up to the top of his bowl and splash. I liked that. It was funny."

"Yes."

"And John put the Christmas tree in his beaker every year, and he'd swim around it like he was investigating it. Then he'd get bored and swim up to the top like he was investigating everyone outside."

"Yes."

"I liked Archimedes."

"Yes."

"He didn't like me. He didn't not like me, either. He was just a fish. I think he recognised me, though, as you said. And I liked him."

"I liked him too."

"I don't want to dissect him."

"No." Sherlock rubbed his cheek against Ford's curls. "Nor do I." Archimedes was only a fish, but he was not... he was not a _thing_.

Ford hugged him hard and butted his forehead against Sherlock's chest without looking up. "Can we bury him here? In Mrs Hudson's yard?"

"Of course."

"In his beaker. I know it's not... not rational, but I want him to have his house. And his Christmas tree."

"No, it's not rational," Sherlock agreed, "Of course you can."

"Can we call Violet? She'll want to say goodbye."

"Yes. Of course."

It was a constant marvel to Sherlock, how Ford, all of twelve years old, was in so many ways so much smarter than him.

Together, Sherlock and Ford emptied the beaker of water and spread the stones out to dry.

John came home as they were looking for the Christmas tree. He took the news of Archimedes' death in typical stoic fashion, at first. He became very practical. He found the little aquarium-approved tree he'd gone to so much trouble to find, and suggested they wrap the small body to deter scavengers.

Back at the table, John and Sherlock watched Ford gently wrap Archimedes in a little square of orange blanket cut from one of the many they had stuffed in a cupboard.

John got a bit emotional then, and a bit embarrassed by that. "I know he was just a fish, but he was a funny little bugger. He used to hide behind his plant when clients came up. But he'd come up and beg for food if I got home alone in the middle of the night. Sometimes he ate right out of my fingers. I read somewhere that goldfish liked peas, so used to take the skin off a shelled pea and hold it for him, every anniversary."

At Sherlock's hard-to-read look, John shrugged. "Of when we got him. It was the day I met Mary, and it was the first time the band had played together in public, after you got back. And it's when Sally went to work for Mycroft. Then at home that night, we had that... talk." About why Sherlock had no need to be jealous, or to fear that he could in any way be supplanted. _Accepting all of me is accepting your role in my life too_ , John had said, and a fear that Sherlock would barely acknowledge that he'd held was laid to rest.

"Archimedes was there at the start of so much," said John, gazing sadly down at the little orange shroud, "He was here for so much afterwards that was important too. Bye, little feller."

"Bye," said Ford, carefully patting the blanket.

Sherlock pressed the tip of his index finger to the edge of the cloth. Then, carefully, he lifted Archimedes into the beaker.

John picked up the tablet computer and used the video messenger to contact Violet, who was staying with her mothers in Mauritius. He explained about Archimedes, and she had a little cry. John looked like he might too, patting his fingers against the screen. "Don't cry, baby girl,  don't cry, honey. I'm so sorry."

"He was just a stupid fish," Violet sobbed, sounding angry with herself. She sobbed again. "He's always been there. He used to hide behind his plant for two days when I got home and then he'd remember me and let me hand feed him brine shrimp." Violet’s head came up suddenly, hearing something in her distant home, then she called out: “Mum? Mum! Archimedes died!”

Mary was beside her in an instant, and some (but only some) of John’s tension left him, because there was someone to hug his little girl when he couldn’t.

“Oh, John, I’m sorry,” Mary said, letting Violet cry into her shoulder, “He was a terrific little fish. When I was pregnant I used to watch him swimming round in circles. It was very soothing when the morning sickness was bad or I couldn’t sleep.”

Ford pushed his head against John's ribs, nudging his face into the comfort of John's torso and reaching out to pat Violet's digital face on the screen.

"We're going to bury him in the garden, Violet," said Ford, "Come with us."

Violet's tear-stained face turned towards them and her hand loomed large on the screen, her fingers meeting Ford's. "Can I say something when we get outside? For... for the funeral?"

At Ford's suggestion her fathers showed her and Mary the glass coffin: Archimedes wrapped and placed inside the beaker; the stones between which he used to nudge, hunting for food, gently laid on top of him; the little aquarium Christmas tree on top of those. A little tinsel wreath, the one that had encircled the beaker last Christmas, was tucked on top. It looked almost festive, and perhaps quite fitting for the simple but pleasing life Archimedes had led.

They went downstairs, the small procession gathering up Mrs Hudson as they went. ( _Oh dear_ , she had said, _he was such a nice fish. He would come up to the top of his beaker to say hello when I was looking after him for you. And you used to play for him when John was away, didn’t you Sherlock?_ And Sherlock didn’t reply, though he didn’t deny it.)

In the yard, Sherlock took a trowel and bent to the tiny garden bed at Mrs Hudson's direction, to dig a hole between the flowers, deep enough to discourage neighbourhood cats. They placed the beaker inside it and Ford got on his knees to cover up the hole and pat the soil down.

"Goodbye Archimedes," Violet said, with a small choke in her voice, witnessing it all from nations away through the screen her father held, "You taught me a lot, you and Sherlock and Dad. You were the best listener, too. You listened to me tell you a lot of stupid stuff that felt important at the time. So thanks for that. You were a great fish." She sniffed. "You say something now, Sherry."

Ford patted the ground over the grave. "You were my favourite colour," he said, "And whenever all the things in my head get too much and I need to think about happy stuff, you’re always one of the first things I think about. And Violet is right. We learned a lot of science from you. I hope you don't mind if I learn fish anatomy from some other fish. I just really, really liked you. You really were a great fish."

He rose, brushed soil from his knees and hands, then reached over to take Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock took it, squeezed it.

They all maintained a moment’s silence, and then Ford said: "Can we have hot chocolate?"

"And cake, if you like," said Sherlock.

Ford held his other hand out for John to take.  John held Mary and Violet contained in the tablet in one hand, and Ford in the other.

"Thanks for not having the funeral without me, Dad."

"We wouldn't have said goodbye without you, baby girl."

Violet sniffed. There was the sound of a closing door through the speaker. "Rupe just got home."

Nirupa appeared on the screen, listened to Mary tell her the news and wrapped her arms around Violet. She gave her little girl a kiss on the forehead. 

"I'm sorry about Archimedes," said Nirupa to the gathering.  "I don't know if you know this, but in many cultures, fish symbolise abundance and creativity.  The Celts saw some fish as symbols of knowledge and inspiration, and to the Chinese they're a symbol of fidelity and union." She shrugged a bit sheepishly. "So... He was a good symbol for your house, John, I guess."

The observation seemed to make everyone feel better.  John kissed his fingers and pressed them to the screen to say goodbye, and Sherlock touched his own finger pads to Violet's digital presence, even though it was nonsensical. It wasn't as though he could actually feel her skin, the way he suddenly wanted to, but it seemed to make her happy. Or at least, less sad.

They left Violet in her mothers’ care and retired to Mrs Hudson's kitchen for hot chocolate and cake.

Ford picked at his poppyseed cake, preoccupied, while the adults swapped stories on the things that fish had seen – at least, the things they were willing to talk about in mixed company.  After a while, Ford pushed back from the table.

"I have to get something," he muttered, and ran out and up the stairs.  A few minutes later he was back, clutching paper and pencils from his bag.

Then he sat hunched over the paper and, with fierce concentration, drew a picture of the late Archimedes, Most Excellent Fish.  Ford, like his fathers, was an excellent draughtsman. It was an accurate and elegant picture.

He handed the picture to Sherlock when he was done.  "We can put it on the mantel," he said, "To remind us."

So up they all went, to 221b, and they put the picture up and admired it silently, filling in the too-empty space.  Then Mrs Hudson went home, and Ford, John and Sherlock talked about Mars and science and biology and whether fish could survive in lower gravity, until late.

Later that night, as Ford was stretched out on the sofa, he glanced across to the mantel. He used to be able to see Archimedes by moonlight, drifting in a kind of goldfish sleep. Now, he saw the picture he’d drawn. He swallowed hard. Blinked.

For the first time, he fully realised that everyone he loved would one day die. The swallowing became harder. He didn’t want to know that. He didn’t want to think that.

“It’s true,” came a voice from the shadows, and Ford blinked again, to make out the shape of his Other Father in the darkness. Sherlock almost always knew what he was thinking, which was very comforting sometimes.

“Everything dies,” continued Sherlock quietly, “And that is a reason to either reject emotional attachment utterly, or to love those we love with everything we have while we can.”

“They’ll all still die in the end,” said Ford matter-of-factly, “No matter what.”

“Yes. But it makes a difference to the quality of the time until then.”

Ford closed his eyes; breathed slowly. Opened his eyes to make out that very still silhouette.

“It would be lonely,” he said, “If nobody mattered.”

“Yes.”

“I love you, Sherlock,” said the boy, “And Mum and Dad, and Violet and John and Mary and Nirupa. And Mrs H.  and everyone. Even though I know that will make me sad one day. I’ll still have happy things to think about, like with Archimedes.”

“You will. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t.”

“We love you too.”

“I know.”

The silhouette moved through the darkness until Sherlock was kneeling by Ford’s makeshift bed. He leaned over and they looked at each other, equally intense, equally solemn. Then Sherlock raised a hand to brush his fingers over Ford’s cheek.

“ _I_ love you,” said Sherlock. “I don’t always say the right thing, but I’m learning. Don’t ever be afraid to tell me when I’m wrong.”

Ford’s solemn expression dissolved into a grin. “But you’re almost never wrong.”

The expression pulled an answering smile from Sherlock. “ _Almost_ never.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” Ford promised, then giggled.

“”Good. Then between you, Violet and John we’ll have most of my faults covered.”

Ford settled back against his pillow. “Will you play me some Brahms?”

“If you like. I thought you didn’t like Brahms.”

“He’s not my favourite, but I thought if Archimedes like him, he might be worth trying again.”

“All right. If you change your mind…”

“Then Verdi.”

“Good choice.”

Sherlock fetched his violin and played until Ford (and also, as it happened, John, lying restless upstairs, arms aching with the longing to hold the rest of his family, deciding to fly down to see them next week) slept.

Sherlock spent the night on his chair, violin in his lap, watching Ford sleep, and breathe, and knew that even knowing love could lead to loss and sorrow, he would not give up a single moment of the time until then.

 


End file.
